


the one where patrick wants to get his face fucked

by glycerineclown



Series: Tumblr Prompts [2]
Category: Looking (TV)
Genre: Desperation, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6121136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glycerineclown/pseuds/glycerineclown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick moves to kneel on the rug, and all but buries his face into Richie’s crotch. His cheek rests against the denim over Richie’s thigh and fingers card into Patrick’s hair.</p><p>“What’d they say to get you so riled up, baby?” Richie asks softly. “Did they say you got a pretty mouth?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the one where patrick wants to get his face fucked

**Author's Note:**

> That scene in the kitchen in 2x02 made me wonder just how far his desperation might extend.
> 
> Set between 1x05 and 1x06. Facefucking. Dirty talk. Mild, undernegotiated D/s. Probably maybe dubious consent. Unbeta'ed. I took Richie’s line “you’ve gotta be adaptable, otherwise you’re gonna miss out” to heart.

Patrick might be drunk. 

And outside Richie’s apartment.

He’s been at Stud with Doris and Dom—ignoring _that_ coincidence—for a couple hours and he needs to suck Richie’s cock more than anything. He needs that smug grin and those fingers in his hair.

Richie buzzes him in to the building, and Patrick manages to get up to Richie’s floor without more than one incident. Right before Patrick can knock, Richie opens the door.

Patrick gets a kiss and a “Hey, Pato,” and is led inside.

“Wanna blow you,” he replies, as the door is closing.

Richie chuckles. “Okay.” He looks at Patrick more carefully, and touches his face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Patrick nods. “I mean, I’m a little drunk, but hairy guys have been hitting on me all night and I wan’ you to fuck my face.” His eyes widen like he just heard himself, his lips closing, terrified and uncertain.

The side of Richie’s mouth quirks up, and he turns to the sink, filling a mug beside it with water. “Drink this.”

Patrick does as he’s told.

There’s not much seating at Richie’s place. They sit down on the bed after Patrick drains the mug.

“Tell me again, Pato.”

Patrick closes his eyes, wincing a little. Fuck it. “I want you to fuck my face?”

“That sounded like a question.” Patrick’s blushing down his neck now. “What do you want, Pato? Open your eyes and tell me.”

He does, groaning. “Fuck my mouth, Richie. Guh—please.” Patrick squeezes closer, pressing his forehead into Richie’s temple, sliding a hand up his thigh. “Please.”

Richie turns, kisses him, slow.

Patrick moves to kneel on the rug, and all but buries his face into Richie’s crotch. His cheek rests against the denim over Richie’s thigh and fingers card into Patrick’s hair.

“What’d they say to get you so riled up, baby?” Richie asks softly. “Did they say you got a pretty mouth?”

Patrick hums, leaning into Richie’s hand.

“That you’d look so good wrapped around their cock? That your face would look so good painted with their come?”

“Yeah,” Patrick grumbles back.

“Did you tell ‘em you’ve got a boyfriend?” he asks, brushing a thumb over Patrick’s cheek.

Patrick nods.

“Oh, really?” Richie says, smiling. “And who might that be?”

Patrick grins back, his lips grazing Richie’s thumb as he looks up. “Richie Donado-Ventura.”

He tips his face, settles his teeth around Richie’s pointer finger.

“No biting,” Richie says, and Patrick pulls back immediately. “You wanna try that again?”

“Yes, Sir,” Patrick says, and Richie doesn’t have time to be surprised by the way his cock jumps in his jeans at the title, before Patrick’s mouth has taken his first two fingers down to the knuckles, his teeth covered, his tongue working.

Patrick pulls, sucks as he drags his mouth back up.

“Oh, fuck,” Richie says softly, watching Patrick’s cheeks hollow as he palms Richie’s dick over his pants.

His fingers slide from Patrick’s mouth with a wet _pop_ , and Patrick breathes out heavily, kissing Richie’s wrist and reaching for his belt. “May I?”

Richie lifts his hips.

He surveys himself, the room, as Patrick pulls his pants down to his calves. He’ll have more leverage if he stands. Richie steps out of his jeans and briefs, tugs off his socks. Nudges Patrick to rise up on his knees between Richie’s feet.

Patrick lifts his hands cautiously, and strokes over Richie’s legs, nosing into the crease where his balls meet his thigh. He wraps his fingers around Richie’s cock, and runs his tongue up the side.

“Fuck, Pato,” Richie says again, dragging his fingers back into Patrick’s hair with one hand, and joining Patrick’s hand around his cock with the other. Patrick looks up, his face open, and Richie taps his cock against Patrick’s cheek. “You ready?”

“Yes, Sir.”

That title again.

Patrick might have smirked a little bit if he had any self-awareness at all right now. His mouth is watering. All he can smell is Richie and all he can feel is the fist in his hair.

Richie braces himself.

He’d told Patrick his philosophy of adaptability—he doesn’t think Patrick’s just testing it, but Richie’s been counteracting since Patrick came in the door.

Patrick needs something specific from him. He’s gone so far as to ask for it directly, which is big for Patrick. He’s—he’s fulfilling a role right now. Patrick takes direction well, without comment for once in his life. He doesn’t want to be in charge.

That’s trust.

Richie feeds his cock into Patrick’s mouth and watches his eyes close. Patrick doesn’t move, just holds Richie in his mouth like that as Richie’s thumbs brush over the shells of his ears.

“Hands on your own thighs, Pato,” Richie finds himself saying, and feels Patrick’s fingers leave him.

Unless—they were there to sense his movement.

“Look up, baby.”

He does.

“Do you need your hands on me to do this?”

Patrick shakes his head, minutely, with his mouth full.

“What will you do if you need me to stop?”                

After a beat, Patrick wraps a hand around Richie’s ankle and squeezes twice.

“And if you want me to slow down?”

Patrick huffs around the cock in his mouth and squeezes Richie’s ankle once.

Richie smiles. “Good boy,” he says, honeyed, and Patrick’s eyes close again, his hands settle back on his thighs. “Very good.”

Richie’s hands don’t hold Patrick still right away—they just feel where he is, as Richie winds up for the first thrust.

He takes Richie down beautifully, swirling his tongue, sloppy.

It takes a couple of minutes before Patrick can get his nose in Richie’s pubes—he’s not _huge_ , which truth be told, is always better for both parties as far as blowjobs go—and Patrick’s lips are stretched around him, shining, dripping, stunning.

Red.

Richie’s hands are laced together behind Patrick’s head now, at the base of his skull.

The— _slurping_ , there’s no other word for it—feels loud in Richie’s small studio. It’s unavoidable.

The head of Richie’s cock hits the back of Patrick’s throat, and Patrick sputters, pulling off, wiping his mouth on his wrist.

“I’m okay,” Patrick rasps, sniffs, and dives back in.

This time they go a little slower—and Patrick swallows around him.

When Richie thrusts—an inch—he whines a little. Patrick’s leaning in, the crown of his head against Richie’s stomach to get the angle down his throat.

Richie runs his fingers under Patrick’s jaw and down his neck, feeling the intrusion, the fullness of his cock in Patrick’s mouth. There are tears streaming down Patrick’s cheeks, but his hands are still on his thighs.

Patrick swallows around him again and looks up.

“You are so gorgeous,” Richie says, gripping at Patrick’s throat lightly, brushing the hair off his forehead. “Doing so good. I’m so happy you trust me with this, babe.”

Patrick groans a little, and Richie drags his hips back, pulling his cock most of the way out of Patrick’s mouth, leaving the tip on his tongue.

“Why don’t you suck on my balls now, before I come all over that pretty face.”

Patrick smiles and leans back, laving his tongue over the head of Richie’s cock. He’s been dribbling precome for who knows how long. There’s a string of it, bubbly and disgusting, across Patrick’s cheek. He leans his forehead on Richie’s thigh after a moment, and clears his throat. “Can I use my hands to do that thing you like?” he asks.

Richie nods, but Patrick’s not looking at him. “Yes.”

He’s fondling Richie’s balls then—rolling them against his thumb, rubbing the skin behind them, sucking one into his mouth.

Richie doesn’t know how he’s hanging on. There’s saliva everywhere. Maybe it’s the cold air hitting everything that doesn’t have Patrick’s mouth on it—and Patrick’s still wearing all of his clothing.

“Let’s take your shirt off, Pato,” Richie says, touching his shoulder. “Gonna feed you my come offa your skin.”

Patrick makes a noise in his throat, and lets Richie pull his flannel off his shoulders before he reaches for the hem of his t-shirt.

“You got a filthy mouth, Sir,” Patrick says, when his t-shirt’s being pulled over his head.

“Look who’s talking,” Richie says, bunching it up and wiping his face. Patrick giggles, biting at the fabric, and Richie snorts, sitting down on the bed. Patrick’s so flushed, and his lips are puffy. He tips his face up when Richie touches his cheeks, and then Richie’s leaning down to kiss him.

“How’d I get so lucky?” he asks against Patrick’s lips, and can feel when he smiles back. Richie brushes his fingers down from Patrick’s cheek to his chest, tugging on a nipple. “Where do you want me to come, baby? Show me.”

Patrick presses the heel of his hand over the front of his jeans briefly, and then takes Richie’s hand, drawing it to his throat. “Here.”

Richie drags his fingers back up into Patrick’s hair and places a kiss under his jaw before he stands up again. Patrick follows, rising up from his haunches, and leans into Richie’s hand.

“Open up for me.”

Patrick does, and Richie pushes in with a shallow thrust, grazes over the roof of Patrick’s mouth. He tilts his head a little, moves in when Richie pulls him forward.

“Yeah, Pato,” Richie says, under his breath, when Patrick swallows around the head again. “Just like that. Use your hand now, babe.”

Patrick pulls back enough to get a fist around Richie, tongues at the veins under the head as he jerks him off.

When Richie pulls out of his mouth, his hand joins Patrick’s again.

Patrick tips his head back when the fingers of Richie’s other hand lift his chin. “Shit,” Richie says. “You are so—fucking—”

Patrick smiles up at him, licks his lips. His eyes close when the first stripes of come hit his chin, his adam’s apple.

Richie groans loudly as Patrick strokes him through it.

Richie has to sit down.

When he’s caught his breath, he pulls Patrick up from his knees, onto the bed with him and into a kiss. “You okay?” he asks, reaching for Patrick’s shirt, wiping his mouth with it again.

Patrick nods, and Richie swipes a fingertip through the come under his jawbone, waits for Patrick’s mouth to drop open.

It does.

“Was that what you needed, Pato?” he asks, as Patrick’s lips close around his fingertip. 

Patrick hums, wraps his arms around Richie’s neck.

 

Richie drags Patrick’s pants off and helps him into the shower after a few minutes, because his knees aren’t agreeing with him.

Patrick moans into Richie’s shoulder when he shoots his load against the wall of the tub.

Richie can wait until after they get some sleep to ask.


End file.
